


Dark Places

by sadlittlepeachesandplums



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dark!Quentin, ambiguous ending, everyone's dead, good god so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlittlepeachesandplums/pseuds/sadlittlepeachesandplums
Summary: He climbs to his feet shakily. The world goes wobbly for a second, dizzying and dancing until it balances itself out and Quentin remembers he hasn’t eaten or had anything to drink in days. But it’s okay. He can eat and drink and do whatever the fuck else when he fixes this. He blinks away the blurry vision, shaking his head slightly, as he takes a wobbly step towards the doors on the opposite side of the throne room. He takes another step, pulling the key in and clutching it to his chest. This is the only way. This is his—their—salvation.He follows a map he’d written lifetimes ago. He’s not even sure how he remembers it. But it’s there, stuck in his mind, vague but just strong enough to outshine the memories he doesn’t want to access.She’s not even surprised when he stumbles through the barrier.“Hello, Quentin,” Jane says, looking up from her plants. “I had wondered when I’d be seeing you.” Quentin sways in place, and she shakes her head, waving a hand as a chair appears. “Please, do sit. You look exhausted.”He doesn’t even spare a glance at the chair. “Undo it,” He says, taking an unstable step towards her. “Turn it back. Let us—let us redo it.”…





	Dark Places

He barely manages to complete the quest. His body aches, and his mind’s screaming at him, telling him it’s not worth it. But they didn’t—none of this happened for . . . for nothing. There were too many sacrifices, too much lost, for him to turn his back on the quest. To turn his back on magic and, possibly, the only chance he has to fix this. If he brings magic back he can fix it all.

At least thats what he tells himself right up until magic is restored.

And then he collapses on the floor, a heap of misery and pain. There’s so much pain. It races through his every bone, courses through his veins like it’s molten lava, turning his insides into stone. He sits there for he doesn’t even know how long, his back pushed up against the stone of the castle walls. He’s not even sure how he got back to Fillory. How he ended up in the throne room. All he knows is he can’t move. He can’t move until he finds a solution.

Because he can’t do this.

He’s never been good at being alone. And he can already feel that darkness, the one he’s kept suppressed in the name of completing the quest, creeping in at the edges of his vision. The thoughts of suicide seep in at the corners of his mind, slinking in like dark shadows of the night, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. But they don’t need to wait, because Quentin is defenseless. He’s got nothing keeping him from pushing up from the floor, running to the balcony, and just—learning to fly. Or fall. Whichever comes first.

But something keeps him where he is. Cemented to the floor. 

There’s got to be a way to fix everything. 

He closes his eyes, his head falling back to rest against the wall. This is the first time he’s really sat down since it happened. He’s not even sure he’s slept. The tugging lull of sleep on his eyelids is more than enough to attest to that much. But he can’t give in to sleep. He knows what lies on the other side. Fully aware of what nightmares his mind will pull from his memories, and make him live over and over and _over_ while he lies paralyzed unable to stop it.

Unable to save them.

Again. 

He opens his eyes, a dull throbbing in his chest. 

God.

He’d been so close to stopping them. So fucking near. Perhaps thats the hardest part. Knowing he wasn’t fast enough. Knowing that had he run just a little faster, pushed a little harder, they’d all still be alive. He had the answers. He knew why the spell wouldn’t work, even with the fairy dust. He knew what would happen. 

And instead of stopping it, he’d barely been able to catch Eliot’s attention just in time to—

He shakes his head. 

Fuck. No.

He can’t go there.

He has to find a solution. 

As much as he wants to end this. As much as the thoughts dance around in his head, and the light of the balcony shines down on him, all warm and welcoming—as much as he wants it, he can’t. He can’t give in. He lasted long enough to bring back magic. He just needs to figure out the next step. He survived long enough to do the one thing he knew would give them all a fighting chance.

Now he just has to survive a little longer.

He owes them that much.

He can’t change the past but he can—

He can change the past.

Holy shit, _he can_. 

His breath hitches as he finally moves, his bones creaking and aching as he nearly jumps away from the wall in search of the keys. He doesn’t even care when his bare skin grazes against the one he’d so desperately avoided all this time. Doesn’t even notice the manifestation of all his misery casually leaning against the wall watching him. Because he can’t say anything Quentin isn’t already thinking. He digs through the keys, fingers slipping over copper clumsily, until he finally, finally wraps his hands around the one he’s looking for.

He twists until he’s sitting on his knees, and cupping the key in front of him.

This is it.

He can use this to fix it.

He climbs to his feet shakily. The world goes wobbly for a second, dizzying and dancing until it balances itself out and Quentin remembers he hasn’t eaten or had anything to drink in days. But it’s okay. He can eat and drink and do whatever the fuck else when he fixes this. He blinks away the blurry vision, shaking his head slightly, as he takes a wobbly step towards the doors on the opposite side of the throne room. He takes another step, pulling the key in and clutching it to his chest. This is the only way. This is his— _their_ —salvation. 

He follows a map he’d written lifetimes ago. He’s not even sure how he remembers it. But it’s there, stuck in his mind, vague but just strong enough to outshine the memories he doesn’t want to access. 

She’s not even surprised when he stumbles through the barrier. 

“Hello, Quentin,” Jane says, looking up from her plants. “I had wondered when I’d be seeing you.” Quentin sways in place, and she shakes her head, waving a hand as a chair appears. “Please, do sit. You look exhausted.” 

He doesn’t even spare a glance at the chair. “Undo it,” He says, taking an unstable step towards her. “Turn it back. Let us—let us redo it.” His throat is dry, and his words are hoarse from lack of use. It almost feels weird to speak again. He hasn’t said anything since it happened. Since he screamed across planes of grass…

She clicks her tongue, turning her back on him as she settles her attention on one of her plants. She reaches up and trims an out of place twig. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works,” She says, soft, as she clips another twig.

“That’s not how what—“ He pauses, swallowing thick, as she clips at another plant, “Would you please just ignore the fucking plants for _five god damned seconds_!” 

Jane pauses, before sighing, and setting the cutting sheers beside the plant and turning around to face him. “Honestly, Quentin,” She says, and he wishes he had the energy to punch the look of pity off her face, “You really should sit down. You’re in no shape—“

“Please,” He says, instead, interrupting her. He reaches out, holding the key in front of him, delicate. His hands shake around it, as he holds it, palms up. “You’re the only one who—who can fix it. Just. Give me one more chance. _Please_.” His voice cracks on the last syllable, as he stretches his arms out even further, just in case she can’t tell whats in his hands. 

She purses her lips. “Quentin.” 

“My friends are dead.” 

“It’s not the first time they’ve died.” 

“But you can fix it!” 

She shakes her head sadly, “Oh, Quentin,” she murmurs, holding her hands out at her sides. “You’re forgetting one thing. I’m dead, as well. I can’t leave this bubble.” 

Quentin stumbles backwards a step, shaking his head. It’s more erratic than hers. More desperate. Tears sting at his eyes, and he realizes for the first time, just how much he hurts. Beyond the shock and determination. Beyond the desperation. His bones don’t ache because he’s been fighting to bring magic back. His heart isn’t heavy and practically bursting because of the quest. 

God, he just wants his friends. 

He _needs_ his friends.

“ _Please_ ,” he pleads, voice breaking as a sob bubbles up at the back of his throat and cuts him off. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just turn back the clock. Give me another chance to save them.” He squeezes his eyes shut as another dizzy spell washes over him, blurring the world around him. He sways in place. “Please,” he tries again, opening his eyes. Hot tears stream down his cheeks, “Please, Jane.” 

“This is how it was meant to play out, Quentin. Who are we to change fate?” 

Who are they to change fate? Is she actually kidding? He squints his eyes at her, his anguish suddenly morphing into something darker. How the fuck _dare_ she. After everything she did to get her desired outcome? After everything she changed and took from them? After the lives she ruined to get what she wanted?

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” He says, rage lacing his voice. “Who are we to change fate? That’s all you _do_! You used us as pawns to defeat your brother—to fix the mess _you_ made! You turned us into martyrs and addicts and victims. You—you changed our entire lives and who we were supposed to be! And now!” He takes an angry step towards her, ignoring the way the world spins around him, “You have the audacity to say _no_? You took everything from us! All you have to do is turn the clock back one more time! You owe them that much!” 

She doesn’t even both wiping off the look of pity. “Quentin,” she says, chastising and he hates her. Oh god, does he fucking hate her. “This is not the same thing. What I did was for the fate of magic—“

“They _died_ for the fucking fate of magic! It’s back! I know how to fucking—I know how to finish the quest. Just turn back the clock. I can’t —“ he breaks off, shaking his head again and pointing a trembling finger at her, “You owe me,” he growls. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re the one that planted the cancer in my dad.” Her mouth falls open and he nods. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. You took Julia from Brakebills. You made Eliot an addict. You made my dad sick. All so we could be stronger when it came time to defeat the beast, right?” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats, louder, “Right?” 

She clenches her jaw. “I will admit,” she says, “I did some awful things in order to—“

“You _can_ fix it! Just turn back the clock!” His anger fades back to pleading, as he clasps his hands together, “Please, Jane. I will—I’ll. I’ll forgive it all. Just turn back the clock. One more time.” 

“Quentin—“

“I am _begging_ you.” 

She rushes forward to grab him by the shoulders, “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can!” 

She shakes her head, rolling her lips, and squeezing his shoulders. “Quentin, if I do what you want, I’ll _die_.” She raises her eyebrows, “And I’ve worked much too hard to stay alive. I’m sorry. But there’s nothing to be done.” 

He stares at her for a few long moments. Nothing to be done? She just admitted that she can do it. She’s just too selfish to. Fuck that. He breaks free of her grasp, and lunges forward, stumbling across the clearing. She steps aside, and he crashes into the plant and the table it’s sitting atop.

“Quentin,” She says, too pitying, “Really, you need to sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea, and we can work out how this all—“

He wraps his hands around the sheers she’d set on the table and whips around, holding them out at her. His hands shake, but he keeps them pointed directly at her. “Jane,” He says, taking a trembling step closer, “You _are_ going to bring them back. You’re—You’re going to think about someone other than yourself for once.” She raises her eyebrows, but he takes another step, “If you leave this bubble, you die, right?” 

“That is correct.” She smiles, close lipped, “But, we both know you’re not capable of—“

“You don’t know what I’m capable of!” He bellows, the sound ripping out of his throat angrily, “I’ve lost _everything_! And I will do what the fuck ever it takes to bring them back!” He takes another unsteady step, “Including killing you. So,” He takes a deep, steadying breath, “You either bring them back and die doing something good _for once_ —or. Or. You just . . . die. For nothing.” He laughs, the sound hollow and lacking humor, “Like they did.” 

“Quentin, dear,” She actually takes a step towards him, holding a hand out between them, “I live every consecutive moment in this bubble. You don’t think I’ve seen this story play out? You won’t kill me. You can’t. You’re not a murderer.” 

“I’m not?” He asks, blankly, tilting his head, “That’s funny. Because from what I remember .. . that’s _exactly_ what you made me. With all your tweaking and meddling. All your time loops. I _am_ _a murderer_ , Jane. I’ve fucking killed _gods_ in the name of saving the people I care about. You think I won’t kill _you_ because you’re some character in a series that you planted in my life?” He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he’s taking two more steps, grip tightening on the sheers, “If you think my nostalgia is going to save you, you’re wrong. I—I have nothing left to live for. _Nothing_.” He spits the word out like it’s venom, “And that’s because of you. Now you’re going to do something useful with your life, and turn back time. Or I’m going to slit your throat.” 

“If you kill me, you’ll have no opportunity—“

“Then I’ll make you suffer until you have no choice but to bring them back!” He exclaims, extending his free hand at his side. “I will do whatever the fuck I have to.” 

She stares at him, her eyes flickering between his face and the sheers. He wonders if she’s thinking she can rip them out of his hand before he can react. If she can stop him, before he does anything permanent. But magic’s back. And using something as mundane as sheers isn’t good enough. So, he lets the sheers fall to the ground beside him. They plop into the grass, after a single, small bounce, and then lie there innocently. He looks down at the sheers, and then back to her, wide eyed and empty. “Jane,” He says, “Turn back the clock.” His voice is almost terrifyingly calm, and somehow the shaking and trembling has all but ceased. 

Her gaze locks on the sheers on the ground, before she looks back up at him in confusion. “Quentin . . .” She starts. 

“When you made us into your soldiers,” Quentin interrupts, taking the steps between them, “We learned a lot of spells. A whole lot of magic.” He reaches out at his sides with both arms, laughing, empty, “And magic’s back, Jane. I don’t need a weapon to kill you. I don’t need your sheers.” His arms fall back to his sides, fingers twitching as he sneers at her, “Turn. Back. The. Clock.” 

“This isn’t you—“

“Of course it isn’t!” He yells, “I don’t need _magic_ to survive! I just need _them_!” HIs chin trembles as he finally stops, barely a foot away from her, “Take them, and you take my humanity. Take them, and you take anything, and everything, that makes life worth living.” He raises his hands in front of himself, fingers flexing as he readies himself to cast a spell. “I don’t want to be empty, Jane,” He says, softer, as her eyes dart down to his hands, “I don’t want to be angry and alone. All I want is them.” He purses his lips, with a short nod, “And once I have them back, I’ll be okay again. You’re the only one that can make that possible. So, you’ll do it. Whether you want to,” His fingers fly through the air, casting with near perfection as he locks into eye contact with her, “Or not.” 

She seems to realize what he’s doing only moments before he finishes the spell. Her eyes go wide, and she lunges forward as if to grab his hands, “Que—“ But she stops, her mouth falling open, and her limbs freezing in the movement. One hand is outstretched, just inches from Quentin’s. He stares at her for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” He says, stepping backwards and straightening out his shoulders. “But this is the only way.” He closes his eyes, eyebrows furrowing angrily as he wills away the tears. When everything goes back he won’t even remember. It’ll be okay. He won’t remember. He opens his eyes again and swallows thickly, before reaching up and casting the second half of the spell. 

He’d read about it before they defeated the beast. A spell to take away ones autonomy. To make them a mindless zombie, to follow every command. Part of him is surprised he remembers it. The other part is just grateful that he does. She’ll die when she does it. And he’ll be back in a world without magic. All he has to do is run faster. He just has to make it to them before they blow themselves up in a magical explosion. And then everything will be okay.

This time everything will be all right.

He won’t have the memory of looking into Eliot’s eyes right before he died. He won’t have the memory of being blasted backwards while his friends scream in agony, and he crawls across the Brakebills grass, trying to get to them. Trying to save them. 

He won’t have any of it.

But, he will have them.

It’ll be okay, he thinks. He won’t even remember killing her.

He finishes the spell, and his hands fall back to his side, as the dizziness returns. She stays still for a few seconds longer, until she’s moving across the clearing, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the watch and the key. He can still see her, behind her eyes, fighting it. But’s it a powerful spell, and even someone as powerful as Jane Chatwin can’t fight it. There’s no history of anyone being able to out maneuver such a spell. 

His legs give out from beneath him, and he falls onto the grass in a clumsy heap. He watches her, as she casts the spell to send him back, silently working. Her eyes dart towards him a few times, but he leans back in the grass, chest growing heavier with every moment that passes.

Then there’s a flash.

And he’s running across Brakebills, screaming out their names. 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending is ambiguous. But I like to think he's either stuck in an unending time loop where he lives this over, and over again, or he gets the happy ever after he wanted.


End file.
